Foreign Bodies
by kusegoto
Summary: (Мор. Утопия / Pathologic) They have some time to themselves between dissections and the sharing of alms. Artemy/Daniil, rated M for suggestive themes.


Dankovsky reminds himself to remove his handkerchief from his jacket the very same moment the steel door closes behind him.

It does very little to truly cover the scent of raw meat and grass pulp — he's never really been one to carry scented handkerchiefs — but it keeps him from straining his throat. He grits his teeth so he doesn't gag at the pressure that builds in the back of his mouth while he walks across the dirty floor and to the narrow steps. God forbid someone thinks to make a warehouse with barred windows.

"I better not find specimens laying around like decorations," Daniil says when he meets the bottom step. Artemy turns his head from the basin of water in the corner, where he pours from a steel drum into a bowl inside the basin Surrounding it are several bottles of water; familiarly shaped to the vessels Artemy has been using for antibiotics.

"It's near impossible to make ice this late in the summer," Artemy replies. "My father had no use for this building at the time, and therefore it was not stocked."

"I'm leaving the door open when I leave — to hell with your blooming twyre."

"Always thinking about leaving, even when you've just arrived..." Artemy returns to whatever he's tending to. "Was your walk long?"

"Fairly." Daniil wraps the handkerchief around his face, pulling it tight. The empty carrying bag he brought with him knocks against his hip when he lifts his arms. "Where are your..." He catches himself nearly saying _urchins. _"Charges?"

"... The kids?" Artemy clarifies. He turns himself back to the basin. "Out, somewhere. Spichka disappeared shortly after I arrived. Mishka is likely sleeping..."

"Out? During a quarantine?"

"I don't see you staying indoors, oynon."

"I am a thirty-year-old man. They are no older than ten!"

"Really? Your outbursts would tell me otherwise."

Daniil replies with a short _pah_, and turns away from Burakh. He steps towards the large stone operating table, which reeks of wet blood. The divots in the stone catch his attention; some primitive, rudimentary understanding of draining excess blood, so not to stain the rest of the slab. He is mindful of where he steps at the edge, so not to kick the copper bucket of blood beneath the draining hole.

On the table, resting in the center of one of the stone's veins, is a heart of a particular malignant colour. A clean incision has been cut and most of the blood drained. Daniil takes ahold of the curved knife left at its side to peel away the walls of the right atrium. Inside its chamber is a cluster of ugly pores, reminding him of pebbles in a stream. With a frown, Daniil reaches for the forceps not too far along the table.

"Is this a new specimen?" Daniil asks. Artemy looks back over at him.

"Yes. I retrieved it this morning."

"Have you investigated it for long? Get me something. A dish!"

As Artemy walks towards the workbench in the far left corner of the room, Daniil drags the edge of the blade against the heart's wall. The strip of sinew cuts easily, its clusters solid and encrusted to the soft meat. Daniil lowers it down into a small cup that Artemy fetches.

"I'll be taking that," Daniil says, tapping the tip of the blade to the glass. "Where did you find a knife like this?"

"It is called a menkhu's finger. Technically, you're not even allowed to be holding it." Artemy takes the forceps from Daniil and lifts the heart away, placing it into its own glass, similar to a beaker. "It is only to be used by menkhu. But exceptions can be made."

Daniil hums.

"Does it interest you?" Artemy asks.

"The knife?"

"The specimen."

"As courteous as Miss Yan is, her home does not allow for much space to examine every beating heart I find. Even the hospital makes for a mediocre lab when I have the time to be there. So, yes. I am interested in what that heart has to offer." He rolls his wrist to look at the finger-blade. "And what this knife has to offer, too."

Daniil offers the knife to Artemy, who takes it away, walking back to the sink. He rests his hip against the operating table, mindful of where any bloodstains are. "What is it made of? Whetted bone?"

"Of a bull, yes." Artemy takes one of the bottles from the sink and proceeds to pour the water over the blade. Daniil makes a face as the misty red water spills down to the floor, running to a drain. "We use knives like these for tracing one's Lines, or for harvest."

"Harvest of?"

"Bulls, of course. Though, save for your recent attempts of experimentation, there has not been much need for a harvest recently."

"Our current problems require innovated solutions," Daniil remarks.

"Yes, innovated. Are you considering becoming a surgeon?"

"With our recent experiences, I'm sure even both of us could graduate with proper degrees."

Artemy gives him a look as if to say _don't mock me in my own home._"You have quick hands, emshen, but that does not mean you have steady hands. Precision is superior to speed."

"Yes, yes, I'm aware." Daniil looks towards the large copper drum in the center of the work stations. "The antibiotics — are they ready?"

"If you'd have me give the sick concoctions of twyre and mashed brain tissue, then yes, they are ready."

"How long does it take to brew them?"

"Several hours."

Daniil makes an undignified groan. Artemy shakes his head and rolls back his eyes.

"Are we to sit around and do nothing, then? This is a laboratory, but you lack any notes! How could we possibly make any progress with the state of your work?" Daniil removes the bag from his shoulders and throws it towards a strange doll-like figurine standing by a storage cabinet. Oddly, Artemy seems to laugh at the outburst, with a deep and steady laugh from the depths of his lungs.

"Impatient as ever!" Artemy remarks. "These things take time, oynon — regrettably. I'm not telling you to slow down, but I am telling you to wait."

"What were you going to do while your antibiotics brew?"

"Perhaps I can teach you to steady your hands," Artemy says, with a shrug. He lifts the bowl from the sink, and Daniil notices a small piece of cloth floating in the water. "I was going to shave. Perhaps you can help."

Daniil rolls his eyes, but moves from where he stands. "You'll have me shave you for free?"

"Just my face."

"I wasn't aware that was a stubble. It looks more like you rubbed dirt on your skin."

"Is that why you've covered your face?" Artemy asks, shaking his head. He places the bowl on the operating table and walks back towards a tattered curtain that divides a room from the operating theatre. The way the lights on the ceiling are positioned leaves Burakh covered in shadow before he disappears, returning with a small wooden chair. Daniil, once again, rolls his eyes.

"So I'm a barber now." Daniil cuts in front of Artemy when he turns to walk back inside. In turn, Artemy sits himself down on the small chair. "Where's your razor?"

"Loft."

Daniil parts the ratted curtain and steps inside what he could only presume is the place Artemy has been sleeping in. There's a poor excuse for a bed to the left; a familiar clock and cluttered shelves to his right. At the foot of the wooden bed is a desk filled with papers, covered in nonsense that is likely irrelevant to the challenge they face outside. There is a small box, popped open, with a folded razor inside, alongside a bowl with a small soap cake sitting in oil. The strop lays folded up next to it.

Carrying the tools out into the operating theatre, Daniil is bemused to see Artemy crouched on a chair far too small to support his size. He holds the wet cloth to his face, to soften the skin.

"I thought you considered me too quick — where's the sense in allowing me your razor?" Daniil asks, as he sieves water into the bowl of oil.

"Practise," Artemy responds from beneath his towel. "And also, I just don't feel like doing it right now."

"Of course - that's your ulterior motive."

Artemy hums. Daniil is quick to bring the soap to a later, the scent a lot more welcome than the brewing medicine not too far from them. Daniil lowers the cup down, and brings the strop against the chair, locking its loop around one of the beams. With the bristled brush, he lifts the cream to his client.

"You friend knows a barber," Daniil muses, as he begins to stroke the brush against Artemy's face. "Perhaps I should call him in."

"I will trust one of Grief's men with a knife at my throat the day the river becomes safe to drink," Artemy replies.

"So I'm above a cutthroat? I'm honoured." Daniil touches Artemy's face with the tips of his fingers, turning him to the side. It's as clinical as he can offer.

"Did I say anything about trusting you?"

"How often have we assisted one another?"

"Recently? Five minutes ago, I suppose."

"I can't take you seriously with this soap on your face." Daniil lays the brush on the bowl and rests it behind Artemy once the lather is complete. "You look ridiculous."

"You're the one who applied it," Artemy replies.

"Close your mouth or I'll stick the brush inside it." Daniil removes his gloves and places them in his pocket. He reaches for the razor, flicking it open with a gentle roll of his wrist. Artemy eyes his hand with a cautious look before settling back on Daniil's face. He wants to tell him not to look at him like that.

Daniil places his fingers at the skin below Artemy's ear to pull it taunt. He drags the razor down into the foam, feeling the grain give as lather gathers on the blade. His hair is mostly stubble before he reaches his chin; thick hair, like the blond-brown mess on top of Artemy's head.

"I haven't been to a barber since my first week of college," Artemy admits.

"Met someone special?"

"No, you fool. It was the only time I could afford it."

"Must have helped to practise using blades on yourself," Daniil says. He runs the razor down Artemy's face once more. "Do you normally shave in your laboratory?"

"You don't?"

"God. It'd be a miracle on its own if you knew basic sanitation."

Artemy narrows his eyes. Daniil leans over him, and Artemy leads his head back. He tilts his head, half to keep focus, and half to keep his kerchief from falling against the thick foam. Daniil reaches a hand over to grab the towel Artemy used previously and wipes the blade down against it. He brings it back to the skin, pulling on Artemy as he goes.

It reminds him of wiping away dust or dirt to reveal a portrait underneath. Far more sanitary, even with Burakh's hands still likely lingering with whatever experiment he was performing on the heart not too far from his head. Daniil continues his motion of running the blade on his skin, wiping it against the towel he now rests on Artemy's shoulder. He doesn't seem to mind, even if it's wet.

Daniil reaches for the strop and runs the blade on it several times. He figures he should have done this previously. But the razor seemed fine. Maybe he was just eager to run a knife on Artemy's skin. Does that implicate him?

"So you do have patience," Artemy says.

"Did you sincerely doubt me?" Daniil asks. Then, with a terse sigh to his words, avoiding the affection — "I know when to pace myself, you know. I have a blade near my colleague, which calls for delicate work."

"Do you think I'm delicate?" Artemy's grin is small, but Daniil quickly convinces himself he's irate with how Artemy will ruin the even shave.

Daniil brings a knee up into Artemy's stomach. It's not too violent, but it does kick him back against the stone table. Artemy's gasp is sharp as the chair knocks against it, balanced on its back legs. He can see Artemy tense and grip the underside of his seat, but otherwise remains frozen.

"Not entirely," Daniil replies. He runs the blade down his cheek, but it's unclear if it's a threat. "Hold still. I might accidentally cut you."

"Is anything an accident when you're concerned?" Artemy muses, with the same patient drawl that Daniil coils around him.

"Not likely. I'm intentional with my actions." Daniil lifts the wet cloth, soaking Artemy's shoulder, and wipes away the remnants of soap around his cheekbones. The blade is fair, even if it looks aged; Artemy is far lighter than it was a few minutes ago. Daniil touches Artemy's forehead with his hand, and then runs his fingers back into his hair, leading his head back. "Now hold still. I have your throat."

"Have, or want?"

"Oh, shut up. I'm not licking soap off your neck."

Artemy closes his eyes. Daniil runs the blade down his neck, where the pulse is loudest. His hair is thicker on his neck, catching against the blade and gathering in the lather. Daniil keeps his hand in his hair - unnecessary - and turns Artemy's head to get a precise cut.

"Don't make a sound," Daniil threatens.

"I haven't said anything," Artemy replies.

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"Don't groan, Burakh."

"If you cut me, I'll make it a scream."

"Maybe I will. Maybe I'd rather you make that sound."

Artemy's hands are quick to move from gripping the chair to grabbing Daniil, pulling him just so that the knee he was resting on Artemy drops. Daniil is then left standing over Artemy, boots planted on either side of the chair, and Artemy's hands on his thighs. Daniil looks down between them to examine his posture.

"I think you've made your intentions obvious," Daniil mutters.

"I hope I have," Artemy replies, a little breathless.

"You better not be getting off to being shaven."

"God forbid a man has interests, emshen."

Daniil strikes him. Open palmed, firmly, and across the clean part of his cheek. Artemy shuts his eyes after the shock settles. Then, it is Daniil's turn to laugh, just as humoured.

_"God forbid a_ man has some semblance of _shame, _erdem!" Daniil runs his hand up into Artemy's hair to lead him back again, unnecessarily cruel. He leads Artemy's head a certain way, reaching the blade underneath to swipe, swipe away the last of the lather. He could afford to go over him again. There's patches he may have missed. Instead, Daniil takes the soap-laden cloth and drops it over Artemy's face. As he steps away from his victim, Artemy's chair drops back on all fours.

Artemy takes the cloth from his face and wipes away the residue. He puts it back in the bowl to soak it once again, as Daniil runs the blade on the strop. "Your hands are patient."

Daniil drags the razor down the strop one final time before folding it shut. "Do I?"

"When delicate work is laid before you, perhaps patience does come to you." He keeps his face pressed to the towel for some time. Daniil's eyes flit downward for just a moment, when Artemy isn't looking.

"I thought you said you weren't delicate."

"No, you interrupted me when I said that." Artemy pauses before he returns to wiping his face. "... But I'm not delicate, anyway."

"Of course," Daniil responds, intentionally turning away, placing the razor down on the stone table. He notes out of the corner of his eye how Artemy leaves his legs spread wide, slumping in the small chair. "Nothing as sturdy as your resolve, Burakh."


End file.
